


Messy Hearts

by FreshBrains



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Community: comment_fic, Developing Relationship, M/M, Making Out, POV Daryl, Post-Episode: s07e08 Hearts Still Beating, Post-it Notes, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: “Jesus left you this,” Carl says, handing Daryl a blaze orange Post-It.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the LJ Comment_fic prompt: [Daryl Dixon/Paul "Jesus" Rovia, He leaves little post it notes for Daryl every day.](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/770955.html?thread=100884363#t100884363)

Daryl wakes up in a cold bed. He’s used to it, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. It’s hard to become accustomed to sleeping alone once you’ve started bunking with someone as warm (and frustratingly _cuddly_ ) as Jesus.

He’s still living in Rick’s house—he prefers being closer to Carl once Negan started taking a shine to him—so he walks out into the hallway slowly, feet hunter-soft on the hardwood floor, and listens. The house is quiet.

He hopes none of them saw Jesus leave, and if they did, he hopes they don’t want to _talk_ about it.

The kitchen is clean and spare as usual, with two apples and a jug of water on the counter. He’ll fill up his canteen from the well as usual, not wanting to take up too many resources. But before he can shrug into his jacket and head out, he spots a flash of garish pink on the side of the jug.

It’s a Post-It note—something he hasn’t seen in a long time. In Jesus’ easy, scrawling handwriting, it says, _I filled this for you. Drink up—it’s hot for the season._

Beneath the text is a messy heart, the loop not quite closed at the end. Daryl feels himself flush from head to toe. _Who does he think he is, watchin’ after me like I’m an infant,_ he thinks sourly. _I can take care of myself._ He grabs the note and crumples it in his palm, but before he can deposit it into the recycling, he pauses and stuffs it into his pocket.

He then begrudgingly takes the water, leaving his jacket hanging on a hook.

*

By the time Daryl returns home from a two-day hunt, he’s sweaty and dirty and in dire need of a hot shower and at least six hours in bed with his man. He’s got a deer and three rabbits, enough to both feed his household and appease Negan, and he’s feeling pumped and strong in a way that only a successful hunt can make him feel. He deposits the kill in Aaron’s garage and talks with him and Eric for a few minutes, knowing they’ll take care of preparing the meat, before making his way to the house in the setting sun.

He beats on the front door with his fist before opening it up, knowing they like the warning. “Daryl’s back,” he hears Carl holler out, and then the sound of Rick’s boots thumping down the stairs.

“Any luck?” Michonne’s smiling face appears over the side of the stairs.

“We’ll be fine,” Daryl says. That’s all they need to hear. He takes off his dirty boots in the doorway and starts shedding his outdoor layers. Laundry will need to be done sooner or later. “Is Paul around?”

Carl comes out from the kitchen in his socks and pajama pants, giving Daryl a smile that can only be read as _sinister._

“What? What’re you grinning like an idiot for?” Daryl gives Carl a shove before messing up his hair.

“Jesus left you this,” Carl says, sweet as pie, handing Daryl a blaze orange Post-It.

Daryl groans inwardly before snatching the paper. Just like last time, it includes a messy heart, right below a note reading _At Hilltop for the day. Will be back after sundown. Wait up for me._ Only this time, there’s also a smiling face with one eye drawn as a line, like it’s winking at him.

“Anyone else see this?” He folds the note carefully, tucking it into the front pocket on his shirt.

“Just me,” Carl says, still smiling.

“Let’s keep it that way, punk,” Daryl says gruffly, heading upstairs.

*

“You should know better,” Daryl says, the words muffled by the warmth of Jesus’ neck. He tugs away the other man’s scarf and bandana, seeking skin beneath his usual layers. “Getting me all riled up like that.”

“We both know I don’t know better,” Jesus says, and is cut off by a moan when Daryl clasps his hips in his big hands and pulls him up onto the bathroom counter. They kiss, sloppy and desperate, no time for finesse or romance after not seeing each other all day. Jesus works at the buttons on Daryl’s shirt as Daryl sucks a bruise into the juncture between Jesus’ neck and shoulder, his beard marring the smooth skin.

“You know what,” Daryl says, slapping Jesus’ hands away before fishing a yellow Post-It out of his shirt’s breast pocket, “I’m keepin’ this one. Maybe I’ll use it against _you_ someday.” They both breathe heavily, mouths red from kissing, as Daryl slaps the Post-It onto the bathroom mirror.

_When you get home, you’re fucking me until I can’t walk,_ the note reads. And, of course, there’s a heart drawn beneath it, but this time, it’s full and closed in one continuous line.

“And when I was with the _preacher_ ,” Daryl says, yanking Jesus’ shirt over his head. He fists the other man’s long hair and pulls his head back to bite at his jaw and throat. He’d spent the day with Father Gabriel building a salt cellar beneath the dark, cool confines of the church, knowing it would be the perfect place to store meat when it got colder out. It was a good day’s work, but alone time with Jesus was becoming more and more rare. “Yeah, I’m keepin’ this one.”

Jesus’ legs spread around Daryl’s hips, making room for their bodies to push and pull against each other. His hands clutch at the back of Daryl’s shirt. “Don’t act like you don’t keep the rest of them,” he teases. He laughs when Daryl flushes, not meeting his eyes.

Daryl shucks the rest of their clothes and hauls Paul up like he weighs nothing, bringing them both into the shower. The water is lukewarm, neither of them wanting to go for such a luxury when they have a big bed at their disposal, but the room steams up in no time as Daryl pushes Jesus against the slick wall, rutting their bodies together, kissing the other man breathless.

“Keep writing ‘em,” Daryl says quietly, holding Jesus close in a slower, more tender gesture.

“Of course,” Jesus says, knowing Daryl prefers any more sentiment than that in writing.


End file.
